The Calligrapher

by Edward Docx

  ‘Bit like Shepherd’s Bush.’

  I grinned.

  She drained her coffee. I sensed that our interview was coming to an end. I needed to make a suggestion quickly. The eternal problem with espressos is that they don’t last very long. Perhaps another coffee now? Too forced. I was just about to suggest, lightly, a light-hearted Friday meeting for a light lunch when she gave me a much better opportunity. Reaching over to gather her bags, she said, ‘The weird thing is that I don’t feel like I even know London that well. I mean, I’ve lived here officially for eight years or whatever – since I finished college – but I’ve never really explored. You know what I mean? When you’re in town and you see all the tourists, sometimes you have to remind yourself what it is that they are looking at.’

  I nodded.

  She bent to hook her heels back into her sandals and went on: ‘The other day I was thinking, hang on a minute, I haven’t been up the London Eye or down to the Tate Modern or, you know, out to Greenwich – not to mention all the hidden-away things that I probably haven’t even heard of. I know more about Amman than I do about London. Like when I moved in, I was amazed to find that there were these barge trips down the canals right off my own doorstep more or less. I’ve no idea where they go or what you get to see oh them, but all day I see these tourists arriving and … well, you know, they are getting more out of my street than I am.’

  ‘Do you want to go – on Sunday?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the barge trip?’

  ‘This Sunday?’

  An ambush. I stayed with it. ‘Yes. Why not? It might be fun. Or maybe you’re doing something already …’

  ‘No.’ She looked at me for a moment and then her face broke into an insanely attractive smile. ‘No. I’m not doing anything on Sunday. Not in the day anyway – I don’t think.’

  ‘Well, OK then, if –’

  ‘Hey yeah. That would be interesting. Why not? A canal boat trip. And it’s right outside my door. I gotta go sooner or later. Perfect. Let’s do it.’

  With things taking such a joyous turn for the better, ‘Negative Love’ looks a little … well, negative of me. Something more upbeat would seem to be required at this stage in my account. But the point is this. As St Thomas Aquinas tells us (and as John Donne well knew), it is quite impossible to say what God is, only what He is not. The most perfect thing is describable only in negatives because we have neither the language nor the imagination to comprehend the inconceivable divine. In ‘Negative Love’, therefore, Donne has Love dethrone God as the supreme omnipotent power of the universe – a force which can only be described by saying what it is not, a being no greater than which can be imagined.

  If that be simply perfectest

  Which can by no way be expressed

  But negatives, my love is so.

  In other words, my love is something very positive indeed. Really fucking cool in fact.

  And yet and yet – such emboldening philosophies aside – we cannot evade the bold type of the title’s facetious declaration – ‘Negative Love’; even as Love is God, it is also a bad joke.

  11. Air and Angels

  Twice or thrice had I loved thee,

  Before I knew thy face or name;

  So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,

  Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be;

  ‘I can tell you exactly the man you want to speak to, Jazz mate,’ said Roy Junior, leaning forward slightly over the shop counter in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of his father. ‘You want to speak to Desmond Parks – Insanity Dez to the likes of you and me. He’s the original geezer – the man who started the barge trips up.’

  ‘Right. The Desmond of “Desmond’s Canal Boat Trips”?’

  ‘That’s him. He knows everything there is to know about the canals.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Because, like I say, he’s the one that set the trips up and such. For the love of it: that’s why it’s called “Desmond’s Barge Trips”.’

  ‘Got you.’

  ‘Because it was his idea.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Still lives on his barge, mind. And he probably has a stake in half the moorings up there. Got to respect him for that. If you want a berth in Little Venice, the chances are you will end up talking to Insanity. But he can’t run the tours himself because he’s got the Fucker.’

  ‘The Fucker?’

  Roy Junior grinned. ‘Yeah – that’s right: he’s got the Fucker. Real tragedy.’

  ‘The Fucker?’

  ‘It’s a disease.’ He whirled his index finger near his temple. ‘Of the mind.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Hence Insanity Dez.’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  I must have appeared doubtful because Roy Junior was mildly affronted. ‘It’s a real disease of the mind, mind.’

  ‘What – the Fucker?’

  ‘The Fucker is only what he calls it – it’s his little joke. He says that if he called it by its proper name – Clorette’s Syndrome or whatever – then he would end up saying that he had “Fucking Clorette’s Syndrome” every time the subject came up. Which, given the way he talks, would be quite a fucking lot. Pardon the Frog. But this way, he says, if he just calls it “the Fucker”, he gets the swearing in straight off and saves himself the breath and he has a little bit of a joke at the expense of the Fucker itself – if you follow me.’

  ‘Right. I do.’

  Roy Junior lifted his hands to his face and rubbed both cheeks with his fingers as though relishing the evidence of his first stubble. ‘Course, the danger is that he starts saying that he’s got the fuckin’ Fucker. And that wouldn’t be funny. Because then he wouldn’t be saving himself any trouble at all.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In fact, I asked him once when I was in the Bertram. “Insanity,” I says, “you know the Fucker? What would happen if you started calling it the fuckin’ Fucker? Or the fuckin’ fuckin’ Fucker? Imagine that. I mean, where’s it going to end, mate?” He looked like he was going to give me a slap.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘But you know what he says to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘“Roy,” he says, “fuck off.”’ Roy Junior snorted. ‘And I tell you, the whole of the Bertram pissed their pants laughing at that one.’

  I was about to return us to the point when a customer came in. I looked behind me anxiously. For an awkward moment, I thought it might be Madeleine. I didn’t want her to see me back out-and-about only half an hour after we had parted company. But thankfully, the intruder was a youngish man – innocent if slightly unappealing overspill from the launderette next door.

  We waited for him to approach the counter. Forty Silk Cut Fresh Airs, a packet of frozen cauliflower cheese grills, two frozen pizzas, two six-packs of beer, two maxi-bags of ‘gourmet’ crisps (sea salt with balsamic vinegar – whatever happened to ‘and’?), a bottle of death-bastard vodka, a bottle of fuck-face whisky, cigarette papers, cola, four cartons of microwave chips, two speciality Czech beers and onion rings.

  ‘Lads’ night in,’ he smirked ruefully, then added in a Deep South drawl: ‘Gamin’ time, whoa yeah! Bring it on, boy.’

  ‘Cool.’ I nodded.

  Roy Junior waited until the guy was safely out of the shop and then carried on where he had left off. ‘Anyway, because of the Fucker, Insanity had to cut his old cow in, even though he is the one who knows all the info and the history and such. She doesn’t even live with him on the canal any more. Got her own place down Westbourne Park. So now they split it: he drives the barges – low profile at the back – plus he keeps the boats running sweet and looking lovely, while she handles the people side of the business and does the microphone. They hate each other but it’s made them both a lot – and I mean a lot – of serious wedge.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Makes me laugh, though, thinking about Insanity running the tours on his own w
ith the Fucker: all the little kiddies and the grannies and the mummies and daddies sailing up and down the canal with him shouting into the mike: “Ladies and fucking Gentlemen, we are now approaching Little fucking Venice, and over on the left – that’s a fuckin’ park, and over on the right – that’s a fuckin’ bridge –”’

  I dived in. ‘So where does … Dez live?’

  ‘Insanity, Jazz mate. He gets upset if you don’t call him his proper name. You know – he’s got a bit of a reputation for stuff.’

  ‘Right. Insanity.’

  ‘Like I said, on one of the barges.’

  ‘Any idea which one?’

  ‘I think it’s called the Dirty Duck but don’t quote me on that. The thing is, you don’t want to just go knocking on his door, Jazz mate. Not out of the blue.’

  ‘Well, what’s the best way to get half an hour of his time?’

  ‘In the Bertram.’

  ‘Oh Christ, Roy, you know me. I can’t hang around the bloody Bertram for the rest of the week hoping to meet him. Anyway, how would I know what he looked like?’

  Roy Junior resumed his father’s manner. ‘Well … for a small consideration … I suppose I could let you know when he was in … and maybe introduce you … if you really think it’s worth your while, that is.’

  ‘Tenner, Roy.’

  ‘Plus drinks?’

  ‘Done.’

  Following our inaugural tête-à-tête at Danilo’s and having accompanied Madeleine – oh how the cherubim danced and seraphim sung – to the corner of Bristol Gardens and so returned to the lofty lair of my garçonnière, the reason I was so swiftly out pounding the pavements of Formosa Street was, of course, to lay in my provisions. The barging trip was scheduled for Sunday, so there wasn’t as much time as I would have liked and I wanted to allow Roy maximum opportunity to gather my requirements – principally: real fresh wild Scottish salmon, real fresh horseradish root, real fresh dill and some decent, recent walnuts. My plan was to supplement our barge’s stately progress with a small but exquisite picnic: two or three of my special fine-cut sandwiches each and a bottle of Sancerre. Discreetly carried in a straw bag, easily introduced, nothing too dramatic, nothing too distracting – but a simple, delicious, propitious accompaniment to the main theme of the afternoon: polite enquiry.

  Clearly, we two were now on a new footing. Madeleine and I were no longer strangers. We were – acquaintances. Acquaintances with each other’s phone numbers! And we were going … on a date. Our first date. Whether or not she realized it. Now – as a matter of some urgency – I had to discover what the bloody fucking boyfriend situation was. Because if – and still I could not really believe this – if the coast was clear, then I had to move quickly and decisively, though gracefully of course. If, conversely, the coast was congested, then I needed to know as much as possible about who he was and, most importantly, how she felt about him.

  How did I get her number?

  Quite simple. On the way home, as we were walking down Formosa, I started slightly as though suddenly struck by a thought.

  ‘I had better give you my telephone number,’ I said, ‘just in case you can’t make it.’

  ‘Oh yes. Right.’

  I told her my number. She programmed it into her mobile phone – the only entry under ‘J’, I noticed.

  ‘And what’s yours,’ I went on, ‘in case I fall desperately ill?’

  She told me hers. I committed it to memory.

  You will note how I softened the intrusiveness of the moment by offering mine first – as though she were far more busy and important than I and much more likely to have to cancel – while, at the same time, giving her no room to refuse the return request. You will also note that she never asked my name.

  As I say, the reason I went straight back down to Roy’s was to place my urgent order. The idea of asking about Desmond’s stately boat trips only occurred to me while Roy Junior was writing down the details (on my insistence, since he is not always as reliable as Senior). As much as anything, I was, I suppose, just articulating out loud the parameters of my own internal dilemmas. Broadly speaking (and as with many such rendezvous), there were two options: either go and research as much as possible about the barge, the route et cetera; or do nothing at all except turn, up and meet her on the day. In principle, I am against the first method – the way of the talented amateur – because it necessarily destroys the novelty, the shared feeling of discovery, the common experience … all of which contribute to the establishment of a conducive sense of complicity. The second method, however, leaves just a little bit too much to that treacherous little fuckpig: chance. Normally, this wouldn’t matter. I could have trusted my wits to get me through, but with Madeleine I just couldn’t bring myself to risk it. What if (I could not help but think) the route took us past a series of architectural masterworks about which only a blind and heavily sedated Philistine would know nothing? She may well have been abroad for the last decade or whatever, but I was supposed to live here. So when I asked Roy Junior whether or not he knew anyone, I was really only fishing for an alternative approach – a way of finding out any necessary information without jeopardizing the experience. Insanity Dez, however, was much more than I ever could have ever hoped for.

  ‘Listen, son, you look like a bit of a fucking prick to me,’ Insanity drawled, his crooked finger tapping the side of his pint of London Pride by way of emphasizing the accusation. ‘But because you’re a mate of young Roy over there and because you’re buying the Pride tonight, I’m not going to hold it against you and I’ll tell you whatever the fuck it is you fucking want to know.’

  ‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’ I nodded, realizing that it was going to be impossible to work out when Insanity was suffering from the Fucker and when he was just being rude. He was fifty or thereabouts: stocky, tattooed, bald from forehead to sunburnt crown, but with a frizzy ring of brown hair that circled around the back of his head from ear to ear and signed off with a pair of feverish red sideburns that raged in a frenzy of disgruntlement down either cheek.

  We were side by side, tight-trousered and hunched over like a pair of turtles on two unsteady stools, in the maroon penumbra of the Bertram’s back bar. This was the very bottom of the Paddington basin. Here, even the air was torpid, heavy with sediment, thickened with sludge. The pub dog, Duncan, most eloquently embodied all the Bertram stood for: acute hearing, sensitive teeth, a matted coat, and permanently on the lookout for a get-rich-even-quicker scheme, he lolled between the tables with a lopsided grin and an air of having suffered long through the stupidity of all those beyond the immediate range of his yellowing eye. Like everyone else, he had a lot more ready cash than he ever let on, he was shit-scared of the missus and he was steadily putting on weight.

  Over the Tannoy, the music asserted itself softly: ‘My heart … is like a yoyo string …’ Uneasily, we waited for the song to finish .‘… I’m tied to you right or wrong.’

  ‘So,’ said Insanity, taking a loud gulp of his Pride as the repeat to fade did just that. ‘What the fuck do you want to know?’

  I swilled my, beer around the glass. ‘So … I was just wondering if there was anything of particular interest on the canal route – you know – that your boats take.’

  ‘Fucking too right there is.’

  ‘Oh, great. So –’

  ‘Why the fuck do you want to know?’

  I hadn’t anticipated this. ‘Well – I’m thinking of going on a trip next week and I wanted to know what to look out for. And I heard – I mean Roy said – that you were the man.’

  He ignored the woeful attempt at flattery. ‘So why the fuck don’t you just go on the trip and find out what to look out for? It’s fucking cheaper than standing me and Roy fucking beers all night.’

  ‘Right. I suppose because I wanted to know in advance what was coming up … so I could, sort of, be ready for it.’

  ‘You want me to tell you what to look out for on the fucking trip so that when the fucking guide te
lls you what to look out for you will know what the fuck to look out for.’ Insanity grimaced. ‘You are a fucking prick.’

  From the corner table came the brisk and carefree click of Roy Junior’s newly outed dominoes.

  ‘Well, you know, I just thought that if I knew what was on the trip, I could maybe do some background reading and get more out of it.’ The words sounded awful even as I was saying them. Who the fuck does ‘background reading’?

  He shook his head and selected what I guessed was his favourite tone of voice – confidential in tenor, while somehow of broadcast volume: ‘Listen, son, if I fucking tell you everything I know about the fucking Grand Union Canal – or the Regent’s for that matter – then you’re not going to get anything more out of my fucking boat trip; you are going to get less. Because anything my fucking missus has got to say on that fucking boat will seem like Peter and fucking Jane by comparison to what I know. And all you will get is depressed and disa-fucking-ppointed.’ He was now openly derisory. ‘For fuck’s sake. If you really want to get the most out of Desmond’s Canal Boat trips, then my advice is just to fucking go on one of them like everybody fucking else.’

  ‘Insanity, listen. I need to impress a fucking bird.’

  And with these magic words, the mighty gates to the citadel of knowledge swung open before me and I hobbled gratefully inside.

  For the next hour or so my guide proved himself as eloquent and as knowledgeable as had been promised. Even the Fucker seemed to trouble him less as he waxed about John Nash’s original designs for the Regency canal villas or traced with his hand the route to Limehouse. Two pints of Pride later and immeasurably better informed, I was ready to leave: ‘… and it’s OK to take sandwiches and a bottle?’